


Something to believe in

by DoctorTooStrange



Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: Academia, All the quirks, F/F, Feelings, Fluff, Internal Monologue, Meet-Cute, Origin Story, Science bonding, Slow Burn, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, imposter syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-29 09:41:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8484493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorTooStrange/pseuds/DoctorTooStrange
Summary: When Abigail Yates advertised for a post-doctoral researcher position in her lab at the Higgins Institute, she had no idea that her life will be forever altered by the applicant leaning against her doorframe. 
When Jillian Holtzmann found a still smoldering book in a dumpster outside of Columbia University, she never dreamed she would be applying to work in the lab of the woman who wrote it. 
Yet here they are.





	1. Meet-cute

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently, I am now addicted to writing Holtzmann stories thanks to all the positive responses on my last (also first) story! 
> 
> I am such a Yatesmann-shipper and I had the idea for this story while listening to Young the Giant - "Something to believe in". That title will make sense at some point... probably. I thought this would be a one-shot but it got REAL long. 
> 
> This is also partially and accidentally about women in academia and Imposter Syndrome. I'm a postdoc currently and every single academic woman I know has some serious imposter syndrome going on in spite of how brilliant they all are. So this get's real inner monologue-y as they cope with their feelings of inadequacy. All of the inner monologue pieces are in italics. 
> 
> PS. Both a bird with a baguette and a weasel have both actually shut down the Large Hadron Collider at CERN at some point.

The person she assumes is Dr. Abigail Yates is looking at her, confused, from the pile of circuitry she is elbow deep in at a lab bench. 

_Is she smiling too wide? Too many teeth?_ She dulls her million-watt smile by precisely two teeth. 

_Oh… that didn’t help. Maybe it was too few teeth._ She cranks it up four teeth. Net gain – two teeth. 

_Not helping. Is she grimacing now? Where is the line between smile and grimace? Maybe she should just close her mouth…_

_That definitely didn’t work. Say something… anything. Seriously, why aren’t you saying something?_

She quirks an eyebrow, seductively. _That was an insane move, Holtzmann… this is an interview not a bar!_

Abby smiles indulgently. _Good choices. You are making good choices._

The silence draws out, Abby smiles less. 

“Come here often?” Holtzmann quips. _Jesus, that didn’t even make sense, this is her lab, of course, she comes here often. Where is this shit coming from? More importantly, why now?_

She leans casually, or at least she hopes it appears that way, against the doorjam. 

“I’m Jillian Holtzmann, the answer to all of your postdoctoral prayers.” Her eyes pop out a bit, crossing slightly as she realizes what just came out of her mouth. _Well, this is not going as planned._ She fiddles with her necklace, centering herself for a moment with the sensation of the cool metal against the exposed tips of her fingers. 

“Oh!” Abby’s eyes brighten with excitement and understanding. “Welcome to the lab!” Abby answers, smiling and hopping up from the lab bench. “Come on in, I’ve been looking forward to meeting with you.” Offering her hand to the blonde engineer languishing in her doorway. "I'm Abby! Yates... Abby Yates!" 

Holtzmann abruptly removes her casually leaning shoulder from the doorjamb and reaches out a partially gloved hand to grasp Abby’s hand tightly, smiling broadly with practically her whole body. 

“I didn’t even know Dr. Gorin took Ph.D. students until I saw your CV! I can’t imagine how amazing it must be to work with her. You know, I saw her give that prophetic talk on how susceptible the Large Hadron Collider is to environmental factors. I was totally unsurprised when they brought her in to fix it when that bird with a baguette took it out! I’m surprised CERN hasn’t had its talons in you for years as her protegee!” Abby chatters, showing the engineer into the corner of her lab that functions as a default office, i.e. the only corner of her lab that isn’t occupied by random electronics, none of which appear to be in working order. It is filled almost entirely with an old metal desk and empty Chinese food containers. 

Holtz follows, assessing how to best to respond to the immediate subject of CERN. 

“Well, they tried but you know how closed-minded physicists can be…. I’m just saying if they want real evidence of the Higgs, they’re going to have to … that weasel came in of his own accord.” _Smooth Jillian. That was super smooth. The weasel was definitely why you were escorted from the premises by security._ To cap it off, she winks at the now confused physicist. 

Abby laughs nervously, knowing that the slight blonde woman in front of her couldn’t have been responsible for shutting down CERN this year. _Could she?_ She offers Jillian a seat at her desk, uncomfortably swiping Chinese food containers into the garbage to make space for her sheaf of interview questions. 

Holtzmann takes the proffered seat, leaning back the chair automatically and propping her mangy old combat boots on the now cleared desk space. _WHAT ARE YOU DOING HOLTZMANN? You literally just went dumpster diving._ She immediately and abruptly changes position, choosing instead to lean against the chair arm. She nervously pushes her yellow tinted glasses to the top of her poof of blonde hair. 

Abby surreptitiously straightens her papers observing the woman sitting in front of her, her blonde hair meticulously coifed to appear messy but attractive, intelligent blue eyes, and those dimples... _Jesus, Abby you’re hiring a postdoc, don’t think about her dimples like that._

Abby can’t believe she’s sitting on this side of the desk. Just a year ago, she was a postdoc, applying endlessly for tenure-track positions. Even finding a postdoc that would support her research interests had been difficult. But a real permanent position? And now, after four years of undergraduate, three for her masters, six for her Ph.D., and two postdocs, she was finally in a position to provide someone else with a job, to be a mentor. Abby had never even been to CERN, and somehow she had an applicant who was offered a job there. Yet, all she could think about was her dimples? It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t REALLY have funding for a postdoc. She doesn’t really need all the salary they are giving her anyway and she can cobble together the rest from the meager start-up she got from Higgins. _Get it together, Yates. Life goals, Yates. You are hiring a postdoc today._

“I’ve read your CV and Rebecca’s recommendation letter speaks volumes on your talent, so I’m just going to jump right into the real question, Jillian.” 

“Holtzmann, please” Holtzmann interrupts her, saluting with two fingers, not moving from her casual repose. 

Abby grimaces awkwardly “Sorry, Holtzmann… should have asked…” She self-consciously makes a note on the paper in front of her. _Stupid. Yates. Stupid, stupid, stupid._

Steeling herself, she continues “So Holtzmann… Do you know what I research here?” _Well, that sounds weirder coming out of my mouth than expected, but asking if she believed in ghosts would have been worse. Right?_

Holtzmann grins at her, radiating interest. She straightens, reaches into the multicolored backpack at her side, and pulls out a dog-eared, battered, heavily annotated copy of a book. THE book. “Oh, I’m aware.” She winks. _Again with the winking Holtzmann? It probably looks like you have a facial tick. Serious science happening here, Holtz. SERIOUS SCIENCE. This is Abigail Fucking Yates, Holtzmann._

Abby’s fingers go white-knuckled on the sheaf of papers in front of her. Her heart promptly leaping into her throat at seeing her book in someone else’s hands, clearly well-loved, if a bit singed. _I thought Erin burned both copies of it. I guess that one does look like it might have been burned at some point. Don’t cry, Yates. Someone appreciates your work, it’s not that big of a deal. This woman isn’t totally validating all of your career choices or anything. So help me, Abby, if you fucking cry right now… tamp that shit down._

Abby swallows, taking a deep steadying breath, trying to collect all of the emotions pulsing through her. That book was her and Erin’s baby. Four hundred pages of babies. Each word carefully selected to best communicate their complex and radical ideas. At seeing it sitting there, she remembers the day she went to her Dad’s publishing company to pick up the two copies that he reluctantly agreed to make for her. She remembers the pride she felt, checking “Write a book” off of the list of goals she'd carried since childhood. She feels the wrapping paper in her hands as she wrapped the second copy for Erin, the beads of cool water on her shaking hands from the perfectly chilled bottle of champagne in her other hand as she walked up the stairs to Erin Gilbert’s apartment for the last time, her stomach tied in knots. 

One of those two copies now sits on her desk. “So you’ve read it?” Abby asks hopefully, not daring to believe that their work influenced the trajectory of the woman sitting in front of her. 

“Read it?!” Holtz’s eyes are gleaming now with repressed excitement. “Are you kidding me?!” She reaches back into the backpack, metal jangling inside, this time pulling out a roll of hand-drawn blueprints and slapping them onto the desk in front of her, haphazardly, over Abby's interview questions. “First off, I think your calculations on how to identify psychokinetic energy are…” She loses the ability to express her thoughts and with both hands gestures to her brain with widened eyes and simply says “Poof!” wriggling her fingers. “I broke my brain over them for a few weeks during the last year of my Ph.D. and I am pretty sure I can actualize them into a portable meter.” She is now rapidly rifling through the blueprints, finally settling on the right one, whipping it onto the top of the pile. 

“YOU’RE HIRED.” Abby blurts, surprising herself, her eyes never leaving the battered copy of her book now sitting on her desk. “You’re hired.” She reiterates, more deliberately, still attempting to regain some sort of composure. She knows there are tears in her eyes. “When can you start?” 

Holtzmann stops, mid-gesture. Still pointing to something on the blueprint, “Now?” she replies.


	2. Moving day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holtzmann moves into the Higgins Lab, weirdness ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is... not very good. I have been delaying on posting it until I can make it better but my heart is so broken right now. Not only am I a bi American woman who just watched from abroad as Donald Trump was elected president, I also found out on election day that my Dad has cancer. I am so totally gutted that it was hard to get outside of my own head and into Holtz and Abby's, so I apologize if they sound like me and not them. Also, there's a lot of cursing because my brain is basically only functioning on caffeine and profanity right now. 
> 
> When I started lurking in this community and then posting in this community, I did not know how much I would need it. Thanks to everyone who has posted here because it has definitely made the past four days easier for me. 
> 
> I did not realize when I titled this fic quite how prophetic it would be for me!

Jillian Holtzmann, new minted doctor of experimental particle physics, is moving into her new lab today. She is coasting on the fumes of excitement at the prospect of working in Dr. Yates’ lab. Her beat up Honda Civic is filled to the brim with pieces she started in Rebecca’s lab at Cornell. Holtz, unable to part with any of her precious babies, pulls over 4 times on in the four-hour drive from upstate to readjust an unstable piece of equipment. _Not crossing any state lines with nuclear material though, so you are killing the safety game today. Self-five._

Abby Yates has been fidgeting in her lab almost constantly for the entire two weeks since she offered Holtzmann her postdoctoral position. That afternoon Holtzmann had walked Abby through her blueprints for hours. They stayed late at the lab, ordering Chinese food, the blonde engineer enthusiastically digging through Abby’s newest complex computer simulations. Abby still couldn’t believe that someone had taken Erin’s equations and Abby’s models and applied them to tools that might be able to detect the presence of the paranormal. She couldn’t help but smile at the thought of the slight woman climbing up on her desk in her mismatched socks, all scrawny limbs and eagerness, to show her a crucial detail about a particular piece of equipment she had designed. 

When Holtzmann arrives at Higgins Institute she has been awake for almost a full 24 hours, having made use of her own personal energy drink recipe that involves more than a legal amount of guarana. The door to the lab is closed. She braces her boxes on the outside of the door fiddling with her phone to check the time. _I knew that last adjustment break threw me off my ETA. And who knew that getting to this part of New York City would add an extra hour? I bet Abby’s already home for the day. I knew I should have brought that extra coolant rig._

Holtzmann stops, staring at the door. Underneath Dr. Abigail Yates, there is a shiny new name plate with the words “Dr. Jillian Holtzmann” engraved on it in neat print. Her eyes fill with unwanted tears. _Holy cats. Dr. Jillian Holtzmann. That’s me. I am Dr. Jillian Holtzmann. I, Dr. Jillian Holtzmann, postdoctoral researcher in the lab of Dr. Abby Yates. Get it together Holtzmann. You knew the committee signed off on your Ph.D. You don’t need to fucking cry about it._ She dashes the sudden exhaustion-driven tears away, snaps a selfie to send to her Grandma and pulls on the door handle to see if it’s unlocked. 

Abby looks up from the computer she appears to be working on in the lab, hearing someone outside of the door. _It’s unlocked. She can get in. Just act casual, this is definitely not a life-affirming moment. Deep breath, yeah that’s it Yates._ In actuality, Abby has been working on the same piece of complex code for days, totally unable to focus on troubleshooting bugs. Instead, she pulls up a finished model and stares, determined not to look at the door, waiting for Holtzmann to enter the lab. 

Holtzmann pulls on the door handle. _Locked._ She dumps the boxes onto the floor and pulls out a credit card. Flicking it between her fingers, she deliberates, making a series of complex calculations in her head. _How long can a nuclear reactor sit in a Honda civic on a summer day with no air conditioning? All’s fair in love and science, I guess._ She sets to work on the lock, her elbow jostling the handle, setting her off-balance and into the door which now opens smoothly. Holtzmann trips ungracefully over her own boxes landing sprawled in the now open doorway to the lab. _The door was a push, Holtzmann. A push. Dr. Holtzmann, my asshole._

Abby hears the commotion at the door, refusing to look away from the model on her computer. _Casual Yates. Just act casual. Jesus fuck, what could possibly be taking her so long opening the door. Maybe she needs help? I should definitely help her, right? No, no, casual Yates._ She sees Holtzmann trip through the door out of the corner of her eye and suppresses a laugh. She appears for all intents and purposes to be intensely focused on her work. 

Holtzmann, sprawled in the doorway, jumbled up with her boxes, face red with embarrassment notices Abby working at her lab bench having not seen her new postdoc’s entrance. _No Holtzmann spectacle to see here._ Holtzmann rearranges herself on the ground to be propped up on one elbow. She salutes with two fingers declaring “Dr. Jillian Holtzmann, reporting for duty.” _That totally solved the problem Holtz. I suppose GETTING UP WASN’T AN OPTION!?_

Abby lazily presses the enter button on her computer, figure after figure starting to generate as she, casually, looks over to the doorway. “Oh Holtzmann, sorry I didn’t notice you were there!” she exclaims excitedly as if noticing the other woman for the first time. She blinks at her colleague, taking her position in “Why do you look like you want me to paint you like one of my French ladies?” _Oh I guess we’re throwing the whole casual thing out, eh Yates?_

Holtzmann lazily smiles and, winking, peels herself up off the ground. She dusts off her hands and picks up her boxes, carrying them over to an empty lab bench. 

It only takes an hour for Holtzmann to insinuate herself into every corner of the lab. Corners that were empty are now full of bits and bobs. The engineer herself is settling into a workspace, rearranging fire extinguishers that she is sure she will need. 

Abby leaves the lab late, stomach full of nerves and broth that should have had wontons in it. She hasn’t worked with anyone this closely in a long time, not since she and Erin wrote the book. The two years she spent with Erin working on those 460 pages were life-changing. They changed how she viewed science and people. They changed how she viewed Erin. They had gone from being friends to something more so gradually over so many years. She didn’t know when she had started to think that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with Erin, but she did. Now she didn’t know when she had stopped wanting that. She only knew that having this new person in her space made her feel like she could change her life again, get her brain out of her computer and maybe, just maybe, believe in something again. It made her want to call Erin, to tell her that she had made a career out of what Erin had dismissed, to tell her that she found someone inspiring, someone who found her inspiring. This desire was so strong in fact that Abby reaches into her pocket, feeling for the cell phone containing the physicist's number. _Goddamit Yates…. why can't you tie a cell phone to your bra strap?_ She heads back to the lab. 

Abby can hear the blare of classic 80’s synthesizers from down the hallway. Arriving in the doorway of the lab, she is floored by the sight of her new postdoc dancing gleefully, tools in hand, carefully arranging her new workspace. Her dancing is more erratic than erotic, all elbows and knees, awkward angles, and goofy grins. Abby can’t bring herself to enter the lab and interrupt, something about the way the way this human moves is mesmerizing. Holtzmann is now twirling a lit blow torch. Abby wishes she cared even a tiny bit about safety regulations, but she doesn’t. 

Holtzmann is totally blissed out on 80’s music, bad Chinese food, and the natural high of having a job doing exactly what you love to do with people who you think will value your contribution. She is halfway through a complex blow-torch twirl when she finally notices Abby standing in the doorway staring at her. She dashes to turn off the boombox slamming into it with her full force and knocking it off the lab bench in the process. 

“Sorry, Holtzmann, I hate to DeBarge in! I just forgot my cell phone. You don’t have to silence the music for me! I love the 80’s!” Abby pulls herself out of her stupor. _Jesus Yates, she probably thinks you’re some sort of voyeur now. DeBarge? Isn’t that song by Devo? I love the 80’s? It’s a whole decade, fuck, maybe she thinks you love Ronald Reagan now. Maybe you should clarify?_

“Ah, yeah, sometimes I dance and work. Helps calm the ole noggin." She pauses gesturing to her head, slightly cross-eyed. "Uh, would you mind showing me where the thermostat is before you leave again? It’s a bit toasty in here.” 

“Well, your sleeve IS on fire.” 

Holtzmann snuffs it out, self-consciously facing her new employer, red creeping up her neck from embarrassment.


	3. Cold and broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holtz and Abby get a call to investigate at the Chelsea Hotel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some hurt/comfort in this chapter. Holtz has an acute anxiety attack, not sure if it requires a trigger warning for anyone who (like me) has anxiety but here it is anyway. 
> 
> Also - fair warning - I caught the Hallelujah bug that's been going around. 
> 
> Thanks for all your sweet comments on the last chapter, I needed them so bad!

Abby and Holtz settle into a rhythm. Every day when Abby gets to the lab, Holtzmann is already there working. Abby teaches all morning, they have lunch together in the lab, Chinese food for Abby and Pringles for Holtz. Abby tries to force feed Holtz vegetables with chopsticks, the blonde laughing as she playfully dodges carrots and celery alike. They work on their separate projects in the afternoon, orchestrating a (not so) carefully choreographed dance in the lab. Abby avoids being in the same space as Holtz. Holtz seems to show no regard for personal space, sometimes appearing a little too close with a new invention without making a sound. One second Holtz has welding goggles on and a blow torch lit and the next she’s at the fume hood deftly manipulating some small-scale catastrophe. The lab is loud and filled with new sights, smells, and noises. Most of them interesting and exciting but many of them terrifying, Holtzmann in the middle of them all, a never ceasing ball of energy and light. 

Abby feels like a satellite, constantly being pulled into low Earth orbit around the engineer. She tries taking a step back but then Holtz is there with a blow torch and a dimpled smile and she’s pulled back in, laughing and happier than she’s been in a long time.

It’s not just the comradery that’s exciting. Abby and Holtz are making strides scientifically. Abby is positive that the PKE meter is theoretically sound and ready for field testing, if they can find somewhere to field test it. Holtz is currently hacking some recording equipment to be able to record electro-voice phenomena. Abby’s put up flyers around the city soliciting reports of ghost activity, dying to test the equipment but in the three months since Holtz’s arrival, they’ve received six calls for “Seymour Butts” and eight “Ivanna Weiner”-s but no legitimate reports.

Abby leaves the lab on Friday before dinner, smiling as she hears the blare of the boombox retreating behind her. They’ve had a particularly successful week. Today, Holtzmann appeared with the newly completed EVP recorder at 4 pm, blue eyes glittering with excitement as her wide open face peered at Abby from behind the computer. Abby couldn’t imagine going back to a time when the lab wasn’t filled with bangs, yells of excitement, and 80’s music. 

Abby is yanked out of her reverie by her phone buzzing in her pocket, the number is unknown. 

“If this is Ivanna Weiner, you should know that I do not, under any circumstances, want a weiner.” 

“Is this Dr. Abigail Yates?” 

“Yes, speaking….” 

“I’m calling to report a sighting…”

“Listen, I’m gonna stop you right there, I’ve seen the Simpsons, I know where this is going!” Abby interrupts impatiently. 

“What!? I’m calling to report a ghost sighting! I know it sounds crazy but I saw your flyer in Chelsea. I work at the Chelsea Hotel and we definitely need your help.” 

“OH MY GOD!... Wait, are you messing with me right now? ...Benny, if this is your idea of a fun joke…” Abby stops, undeterred from her skepticism.

“ARE YOU SERIOUS!? I saw a flyer, are you going to help me? Or do I need to call those idiot ghost jumpers?!” 

Abby stops in the middle of a crosswalk and scrambles through her oversize canvas tote bag for a pen and paper. “No No! I’ll be there! If you had to rank the apparition between a T1 and a T5 where would you put it? Did it seem like it was stationary? Did you happen to experience an AP-xH shift?” 

Abby doesn’t hear the cars honking at her as she jots down the frustrated notes of the woman on the other end of the phone who, much to Abby’s chagrin, cannot rate the apparition. She slams the notebook closed and starts to scramble back to the lab dialing Holtz’s cell phone number as she goes, to no avail. 

Fridays are always the beginning of the hardest part of the week for Holtzmann now. She is used to not having friends, doesn’t need them. At Cornell, she threw herself into research and classes. Dr. Gorin was at the lab every day rain or shine, sickness or health. _30 years. I have gone thirty years without giving a shit if I was by myself, why does it suddenly matter to me so much if one person isn’t around for 48 hours?_ As long as she keeps moving, keeps focused on the next goal, she can always keep the noise inside her head at bay, but medication helped. People make her anxious. Human interactions are so much harder than they seem in the movies. _How do people figure this shit out? I am completely unprepared to cope with this sudden onset feelings disorder, right now._

Holtzmann has her music at full blast. With one hand she holds onto the cool metal of her necklace, messing with the gauge on a potential tractor beam with the other absentmindedly. 

This Friday seems like it is going to be particularly hard. Holtzmann spends weekends in the lab. She technically has an apartment, but her babies are in the lab and her babies always know what to say. _I am Dr. Jillian Holtzmann, I don’t need people, not even Abby Yates._ Holtzmann absentmindedly tinkers with the tractor beam, mulling over what she can accomplish this weekend in the lab, trying not to think of how empty it is on weekends without Abby sitting close by doggedly writing and running simulations, coming up with new brilliant ideas for Holtz to test. _Why do "ideas" sound so dirty in my head?_

Most weekends, the interminable wait for Monday morning starts on Saturday. Monday morning, when Abby will show up smiling, lattes in hand, ready to simultaneously admonish Holtzmann for spending the weekend in the lab and high-five over Holtzmann’s many weekend accomplishments. _Apparently we’re starting this week’s anxiety attack early. You're a real pal, body._ She slams the reverse tractor beam down on the table, her muscles jolting out of control. Sparks shoot out of the tractor beam and slam into the boombox immersing her suddenly in total silence. “Fuck” she mutters. 

As if on cue, her heart starts beating faster, lungs unable to retrieve sufficient oxygen. She can feel all 100,000 newtons per square meter of the atmosphere pressing down on her, her brain immediately filling with the unmanageable noise. 

Abby practically runs screaming back to the lab, dodging the New York City evening traffic at every turn. Her breathing is ragged as she emerges into the basement hallway listening intently for synthesizers, hearing none, and hoping that Holtz hasn’t gone home for potentially the first time ever. She slams into the lab, breast heaving with the speed at which she raced here, to see Holtzmann curled up into herself. One hand rubbing her necklace, the other clenched tight. She can barely hear Holtzmann's small voice singing quietly over the sound of her own breathing. 

“You say I took the name in vain  
I don't even know the name  
But if I did, well really, what's it to you?  
There's a blaze of light  
In every word  
It doesn't matter which you heard  
The holy or the broken Hallelujah” 

Each word is breathless. The engineer looks so still and small. Abby feels a fire blazing insider her, unleashed after a lifetime of waiting for this cold and broken woman. 

Abby stumbles. _How is it possible that she sings too? I mean COME ON, world, cut me a break here._

“Hey Holtz??” Abby places a hand casually on the small of the blonde’s back. 

Holtz jumps out of her skin, practically scrambling to put as much space between her and Abby as possible, surepticiously rubbing the spot on her back that Abby's hand touched. 

“HiHey.I. Didn’tseeyoucomeinHowdy.” She blurts standing up abruptly. “Hi.” She breathes a little more slowly. 

“We’ve got a real report of a ghost at the Chelsea Hotel!” Abby blurts, waiting for Holtz to react. “WHYAREYOUSTARINGATME?! PACK THE BAG! GET THE STUFF!”

Holtzmann looks at her wide-eyed – totally still, not believing that Abby’s back, that she doesn’t have to wait until Monday. 

“WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT HOLTZMANN!? GET THOSE PUPPY DOG EYES IN GEAR!”

Holtzmann scrambles to get the gear together hoping that forward motion will quell the oncoming anxiety attack. 

Abby starts slamming things into the large silver duffel bag Holtzmann used to transport her equipment down from upstate. 

Ten minutes later they are in a cab to Chelsea uncomfortably crammed into one side of the backseat with the duffel bag propped on top of their touching thighs. Abby gets carsick in the backseat of cars so she always has to ride bitch even when there is plenty of space. 

After a tense cab ride, they arrive at the Chelsea Hotel and are welcomed by a supremely stressed receptionist who shows them to a room. 

“The ghost has been reported six times in this room. All of the guests who’ve stayed here recently felt like they were being watched. We checked the walls for peepholes like 6 times but nothing.” The receptionist looks around her scrunching up her nose in disgust at the musty room. “Just give us a ring if you need anything, here’s the key.” 

The receptionist closes the door backing out quickly, leaving Abby and Holtzmann alone. 

Holtz is having trouble breathing. There is only one bed in this hotel room, which smells like old Cheetos and feet. Now she’s alone with Abby, potentially a ghost, and a huge uncomfortable **must remain secret** beginnings of an anxiety attack without her meds. _Of course there had to be a ghost in a hotel room, it couldn’t be the snack aisle at a supermarket or the men’s bathroom of a gas station. It just had to be a hotel room._

Abby pulls out the camcorder handing it to Holtz who turns it on and starts to film. 

“Chelsea Hotel – October 10th – 7:46 pm.” Abby intones as she pulls out the PKE meter and starts to set up the EVP recorder. The PKE meter twirls lazily. 

“Holy crap Holtz! I think it works. You really did it! I mean I knew you were a genius but this is insane.” She looks at Holtzmann wide-eyed. 

Holtzmann smiles, feeling the weight in her chest lighten just a tiny bit. 

**Four hours later**

Holtz and Abby are laying on the bed surrounded by empty take out containers 

“I told you I was never going to try to beat you at a fried rice eating contest again.” Abby groans. “You look so little but you can eat so much.” Abby rolls over onto her stomach stuffing her face into a pillow mumbling nonsensical syllables into it. 

Holtz laughs, hoping that the extreme amount of sodium will start to regulate her once again accelerating heartbeat. _That was not even a real laugh Holtzmann, you’re going to have to try a bit harder here._

Holtzmann clutches desperately at her necklace trying to ground herself in the feeling of the screw in her palm. She can feel her overactive adrenal glands pumping. She can practically see it as the norepinephrine and epinephrine come blasting into her blood stream signaling the onslaught of fight-or-flight responses in her heart, lungs, and brain. _Deep breaths Holtzmann, just regulate your breathing and go from there._

Abby rolls back onto her side and looks at Holtz who has her eyes closed and is now breathing in slowly through her nose and out through her mouth. 

“Hey, you’re looking a little pale there, Holtzy. Everything alright?” 

“Mm?” Holtz mumbles not opening her eyes. The vibrations of her vocal cords feel like pricks of ice in her chest. Abby watches her swallow slowly, confused. 

_How did I break my postdoc?_ Abby reaches out, placing a hand on Holtzmann’s shoulder. Holtzmann jumps up and off the bed. She places her back against the cool wall and slides down it to the floor, running her fingers through her shock of blonde hair. Abby sits up staring at slight woman curled against the wall. 

_You need to say something Holtzmann. She probably thinks you think she’s radioactive now. Just open your mouth, you can do it. Just a couple of words, come on, voice don't fail me now._ Holtzmann opens her mouth, forces out a sound, closes it again and takes a deep breath. 

_Think Yates. What could be happening here? You have a basic understanding of biology. You’ve touched Holtzmann before and she didn’t jump out of her skin which indicates that she’s not repulsed by your touch._ Abby looks intently at the engineer, cataloging everything. _Pallid skin, jerky movements, shallow breathing, tactile sensitivity…_ Abby remembers back to when she was in grad school, Erin sometimes had anxiety attacks around holidays when she would get ready to head home for the holidays. Abby had done a lot of research at the time to see how best she could help her through them but the symptoms and the approaches were so varied, how could Abby guess what Holtz was feeling, or even if this is an anxiety attack? _Think Yates, what would Holtzmann need?_

Abby slides down to the floor sitting opposite Holtzmann, her back against the bed. 

It starts quietly, Holtzmann, at the bottom of the gaping pit inside herself, can barely hear it as Abby, voice shaking, starts to sing. Holtzmann follows that small, shy, uniquely lovely voice up and out of herself. She’s swimming against a current, muscles quivering, up towards the light. Her chest tightens, burning with the need for oxygen as her head breaks the surface and she takes a first glorious gulp of air, lungs expanding gratefully. 

“Hallelujah,  
Hallelujah,  
Hallelujah,  
Hallelujah.”


End file.
